Favourite Poison ON HIATUS
by Earlindae
Summary: 221b Baker Street was eerily quiet. It was not the quite of when Sherlock was just not speaking, it was an empty quiet, a cold quiet. The syringe and pool of blood were gone, but the memory and a shiver remained with him. Sherlock/John Warning-Drug use.
1. Chapter 1

Favourite Poison

**[A/N]** This story came to me and I just had to write it. It might be a bit staggered and I probably won't update it as often as I should. But I like it, and I hope you will too. R&R

**Disclaimer-** I do not own Sherlock. (Oh how I wish I did.)

Sherlock's eyes shot open as he inhaled sharply, the drug making its way into his system. He exhaled and closed his eyes, making the most of the short burst of brainpower before his favourite poison rendered his brain useless. He cherished both the numbness and the rush of thoughts. One thing entered his mind as he crossed the threshold: _John._

"Sherlock," John yelled up the staircase, "Sherlock! Can you give us a hand with the shopping?" There was only a strange, gurgled giggle as a reply. John dropped the plastic bags and bounded up the stairs two at a time, his mind racing, the doctor in him preparing for whatever was happening. Sherlock was splayed across the sofa, eyes unfocussed and flickering. John quickly surveyed the room, looking for any evidence of what Sherlock had done. A syringe, plunger all the way down, was lying on the coffee table, its point gleaming with traces of the detective's blood. Sherlock's eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell onto the floor, his head producing a cracking sound as it made contact. A dark puddle began to form around Sherlock's head. _Oh__god._John fished in his pockets for his mobile, and dialled for an ambulance.

Half an hour later, John was seated in a cheap plastic chair at Sherlock's bedside, head in his hands. The ambulance John had called had been redirected by Mycroft, and they were now in a private hospital of an undisclosed location. Mycroft was stood in the doorway of Sherlock's room, leaning on his ever-present umbrella. "I believe you are somewhat aware of my brother's," he paused, searching for the right word, _"__problem._"

"Yes, Lestrade mentioned it vaguely, soon after I'd met Sherlock. Sherlock, he said," John slumped even further into his hands, "he said he was clean."

"Yes, well it seems we have had a slight _relapse.__" _ Mycroft hesitated on the last word. "Do you have any idea what might have triggered it?"

"No, sorry, I just never thought he'd..." John trailed off, shaking his head. Mycroft nodded at John, turning on his heel and leaving. John didn't look up. "Sherlock..." His voice was muffled by the sleeves of his jumper.

It was the middle of the night when John awoke to the sound of muted sobs. It took him a moment to realise where he was, "Sherlock? Sherlock, what is it?" Silence greeted him. Sherlock had buried his head into his pillow, but John could still hear his breathing, erratic and staggering. "Sherlock, I'm not angry at you or anything, just what is it?"

"Just..." Sherlock subsided into another fit of sobbing, "Just go." He managed to choke out between retching and hiccupping. John's soldier instincts kicked in,

"Sherlock I will not leave you here. You don't need to say what happened right now, but I will not just get up and leave you like this." Sherlock could hear that there was no use in protesting anymore, when John entered a soldier's mind frame, he would not be swayed. Sherlock attempted to press his face further into his bedding, he couldn't make John leave, but he could at least hide from him. "Stop that," John commanded, "you are going to smother yourself." He reached over and moved the pillow so that Sherlock's nose was free from the starched cover. Sherlock's eyes were red and inflamed, and there were tear tracks down his face. Sherlock scrunched his eyes tighter, tears clinging to his eyelashes.

Mycroft was standing behind a desk chair, eyes fixed upon one of many monitors. The screen displayed the figure of John Watson slouched in the visitor's chair, his posture betraying the fact that he was asleep. Sherlock was seated upright in his bed, watching John. "Zoom in on his face." Mycroft instructed the man sitting in the chair. Sherlock was staring intently at John, tears pooling in his eyes before spilling down his pale cheeks. Mycroft's face pinched into a slight cringe. He sighed through his nose, knowing that his previous assumptions were correct. It was a rare moment, when a Holmes wished he were wrong.

John awoke early the next morning, his back stiff from sleeping sitting up. He looked over at Sherlock, who was still asleep, his breathing rasping but even. John stood up and stretched, eyes not leaving the detective. _Clothes,__he__needs__clean__clothes,_John thought. He scrawled a message on the notepad that was on Sherlock's bedside table- I'm getting you some clothes: I'll be back within an hour. – John. He rushed out the door, narrowly missing both the frame, and the world's only consulting detective looking intently at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**[A/N] Right, chapter two! This one was hard to write, also, in this fic, Sarah isn't with John, in my head they split after TGG. R&R**

**Warnings- Drug use, SLASH and a bit of course language.**

**Sherlock is not mine. **

Favourite Poison

Chapter 2.

Mycroft Holmes sat patiently in John's chair, waiting for the doctor to arrive at 221b Baker Street. He flipped open his notepad, re-reading what he had written down in the surveillance room: Triggers- Sherlock's feelings for John, inability/unwillingness to express these, fear of rejection.

Someone could be heard walking up the stairs, Mycroft exhaled through his nose, closing the notepad. "What the-" John started, startled by the elder Holmes' presence.

"Ah, John, I was wondering when you'd arrive." Mycroft said smoothly, as if it was perfectly normal for him to be there.

"Why are you here?" John questioned, recovering from the initial shock of Mycroft's appearance in his home.

Mycroft stood up from John's chair, twisting his umbrella in his hand. "John, I have gleaned some _information_ about my brother's relapse. I have found what seems to have been the trigger."

"Yes, what is it?" John probed, eager to know anything about what had happened to Sherlock.

"My brother seems to have developed certain feelings towards you, romantic ones." Mycroft said without a hint of emotion in his voice.

John gawked, blinking repeatedly, "What?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "My brother see-"

"Yes, I heard you, it's just..." John sat down on Sherlock's sofa, trying desperately to ignore the small bloodstain on the floor below him. John's mind was whirling- _'__Feelings, __for __me? __But __he__'__s __a __sociopath!__I __just __don__'__t __even __know __how __to __react __to __this. __He __is __very __attractive-what __the __fuck__ was __that, __John?__ You__'__re __not __gay! __Still, __he __is __brilliant, __amazing __really. __What __the __hell __is __going __on?__ Wait, __how __does __Mycroft __know__ this?_

_Sherlock __wouldn__'__t __have __told __anyone, __let __alone __his __brother._ _FEELINGS __FOR __ME.__'_

"How do you know this, Mycroft?"

"Observation, John, simple observation." Mycroft walked out of the flat.

John slumped into the sofa, mind still spinning with the new information. Half an hour later, John snapped out of his daze. "Clothes," he mouthed to himself.

He stared at the door to Sherlock's room, suddenly realising that he had never been in there before. John walked into the room, surprised to find it relatively bare, a desk, wardrobe, an obviously seldom used bed and stacks of case files and books on the floor where all that was in the room. John made his way to the wardrobe, spying something purple and festering on Sherlock's desk, he made the decision that he would rather not know what it was, or how Sherlock had managed to procure it. John opened Sherlock's wardrobe to find a copious amount of suits, expensive ones at that. John first thought was how Sherlock could possibly afford all these, when they were struggling to pay the rent. John decided that, once again, he'd rather not know. John picked out one of the suits and searched for a shirt, and some underwear. He was walking out of the room when he spied something, something very _un-Sherlock._ His grey knitted jumper was poking out from beneath Sherlock's pillow. John found himself grinning like a maniac.

Sherlock sat up in bed, eyes trained on the door. It had been 61 minutes since John left. Sherlock looked around his hospital room; finally his eyes came to rest upon his phone

_Where are you?  
><em>

_SH_

John stared at his phone, then at the door to Sherlock's hospital room. He shook his head slightly and gave a single word reply. "Here." Sherlock looked up at the doctor, who was walking into the room.

"You're late."

"Sherlock," John sighed, dumping the bag of clothes on the end of the detective's bed. "I am at _most _one minute late."

"Two minutes." Sherlock said, a hint of smugness in his voice. John sighed again and sat back down in the plastic chair that had seemed to become his. After what seemed to be an eternity of silence, Sherlock whispered "I thought you'd left."

John looked up from the newspaper he'd been reading, "I told you I wasn't going to leave you. I won't leave you, Sherlock. I promise." Sherlock nodded his understanding, a weak smile forming on his face. John looked Sherlock in the eye, smiling in return.


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings- Drug use, SLASH and a bit of course language.**

**Sherlock is not mine, obviously.**

**Chapter 3**

"Mr Holmes has informed me that you are to be discharged now," The nurse who had appeared at the doorway told the detective and the doctor, who were seated in their usual positions of bed and plastic chair. Sherlock bounded off the bed, toppling his IV drip in the process. "Sherlock, watch what you're doing!" John scolded. The nurse looked at them with a cocked eyebrow and a smirk before she left.

Sherlock retained his overly energetic manner the whole trip back to 221b, providing John with a running stream of deductions he'd made about the hospital staff "...they were wearing the same aftershave, which the orderly was not wearing the day before, so they definitely spent the night together." John smiled softly; Sherlock was behaving more like his usual self from the second they left the hospital.

"John!" Sherlock called from the stairs. It had been two weeks since Sherlock was discharged from hospital, and he was back to solving cases for Scotland Yard. "John, what is your attitude regarding absinthe?" John looked up from his newspaper,

"I don't really drink, not after seeing what it does to Harry."

"It's for a case, John," Sherlock continued, not taking much notice of John's answer. "I need to observe the effects of absinthe on someone about your height, weight and build. I figured it practical to-"

"Yes, alright," John cut him off, "how much do I need to drink?"

"Just the one bottle." Sherlock replied, as if drinking a whole bottle of strong spirits was something easily accomplished. John swallowed hard, wondering just what he had gotten himself into this time.

"Shurlook," John slurred, his speech altered by the large volume of green alcohol he had ingested. "Shurlook, can't I go to bed now?"

"No, John, I need to see how long it takes for you to pass out, the whole case depends on it." Sherlock replied, slightly irritated, this was the fourth time John had asked him the same question in the past half hour.

"Aww, alrighty then." After a few minutes of silence, John whispered, "Mycroft was here in the flat y'know? The day I went to get you clean clothes." Sherlock looked up sharply from his case file. "He said that-" John cut himself off with a hiccup; "he said that you relapsed because of me, because you had feelings for me." Sherlock stood up and tried to move to the other side of the room, but John grabbed onto his hand.

"John, I-I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I didn't want you to leave." John stood up and took a step towards Sherlock. John giggled, "I wouldn't leave you, idiot." Sherlock smiled a very weak smile. "I wouldn't ever." John murmured, taking Sherlock's face in his hands, and pulled the man into a kiss. Sherlock tensed at the contact initially, but began to relax into John, kissing him back intensely. John chuckled into Sherlock's mouth before passing out.

John woke up to a pounding headache, his tongue felt too big for his mouth, and there was an unfamiliar weight on his chest. He looked down to see a mop of curly, dark brown, hair. _What__the__fuck__did__you__do__John?_He thought feverishly to himself. He suddenly remembered what had kissing the man asleep on his chest, and his body seized up. _Oh __shit. __God __damn__it, __John. __What __have __I __done? __I __kissed __Sherlock. __I__ kissed __a __fucking __bloke! __But __I__'__m __not __gay! __I__ can__'__t __be! __I __was __drunk; __I __was __very, __very __drunk. __On __absinthe! _John gently moved Sherlock's head from his chest, slowly getting of the sofa. He gathered some clothes and went to have a shower, hoping it would calm him down enough to think properly about what had happened.

John stood in the shower, hot water pounding onto his neck and back. "I'm not gay." He said quietly to himself. "I've had loads of girlfriends! Like Sarah... Sarah! That's it! It's just been a dry spell. I'll go round to Sarah's, that'll get me back to normal, won't it?" He tried to convince himself.

Sherlock woke to the sound of a door slamming shut. He looked around groggily for a few seconds before his mind snapped back into its usual state. _Sofa, __was__ asleep, __smell,__ alcohol, __absinthe, __John, __kiss, __John. _Sherlock's face lit up with the memory of the night before. "John!" He called out, met with silence; he stood and looked around again. He checked the bathroom, John's room, and even his own bedroom to no avail. His attention was caught, however, by how his pillow seemed flatter than usual. He tore it out of its case and stared incredulously at the distinct lack of John's jumper. Sherlock stepped over his bed and sprinted to the kitchen. Attached to the fridge was a small note, scrawled onto a scrap of paper:

I've gone to Sarah's. Don't follow me, Sherlock. –John

Sherlock swore, and stalked back to the living room. "Idiot! Did I really believe he wouldn't leave me?" He scolded himself. He lifted the skull from the mantelpiece and reached inside it, cursing colourfully at its empty state. "Bloody Mycroft! What does it matter to him? Stealing my things." Sherlock got dressed hurriedly and headed for the door, snatching a wad of cash from his desk as he went.

John stood outside Sarah's apartment complex, nursing a black eye. He had very recently learned that Sarah had a new boyfriend, one who did not particularly like her ex's showing up with the sole intent of getting off with her. He looked at his mobile, no new messages. He was somewhat disappointed at this, even though he had told Sherlock not to come after him. _I__ need__ to __get__ away__ for __a__ while._ He thought, rubbing his face.

"Sherlock, I haven't seen you around here in ages, mate." A red eyed man in his mid-thirties said, speaking more to the wall behind Sherlock than to the detective himself.

"Hello, Damien, I trust you know I'm not here for a chat." Sherlock said his voice completely devoid of emotion. "What have you got?"

Sherlock walked down the street which Damien was working, his thoughts focussed only on the weight of the drugs in his pocket. He made his way to the main street and hailed a taxi. "221b Baker Street." He instructed the driver, turning his head to stare out the window. He heard the sound of a gas filling the cab, and smiled grimly before plunging into darkness.

Sherlock was awoken by icy cold water being poured over his face. He spluttered, clearing his throat before asking "Where am I?"

"Now, now Sherlock, dear, I would hardly want to give up my secret this early on." A familiar Irish voice crackled out of an unseen speaker. "I found a little baggy on you, Sherlock. I wouldn't want you ruining that brilliant mind of yours would I? That's _my_ job."

**What is going on with these boys? Plus, now a certain consulting criminal has entered the fray!**


End file.
